


the clavicle-snapped wish

by astoryaboutwar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Can we all agree that Phichit is too good for this world, Entirely Fluffy, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, M/M, No angst in sight, Post-Canon I guess, Post-Episode 10, The wedding fic we all need, Vaguely Canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8791036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astoryaboutwar/pseuds/astoryaboutwar
Summary: The sun glints off their twin gold bands, the band strikes up their first dance, and together, they follow each other into the rest of their lives.(Or: the wedding fic fix we all need.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing going through my head as I was writing this post-Episode 10 was "WEDDING!!!!!!!!!!!11111!!!!11!!!". If you wanted a short, TL;DR summary, there it is. Since my other YOI fics are angst-fests, I thought it high time I indulged in unadulterated, purely happy fluff. 
> 
> Just a quick explanatory point before you begin: I've tried to be _very_ careful about handling Yuri and Otabek's relationship in this fic, keeping in mind that Yuri is _fifteen_ (well, sixteen in this, given it's a year after). I've tried to paint it from the perspective of a young teenage crush (which I certainly know I experienced myself at that age). Absolutely _nothing_ untoward and underaged happens in this fic between the two of them!
> 
> Also, I'm well aware that given current existing LGBT legislation in Russia, none of this could actually happen while in the country. That's why it's called _fiction_ , folks! I can dream. Go along with it.
> 
> Title borrowed from Brian Turner's beautiful poem _Here, Bullet_. The lines referred to, in full, are "Here is the clavicle-snapped wish, / the aorta's opened valves, the leap / thought makes at the synaptic gap."
> 
> Enjoy!

The thing about weddings is that no one tells you it’s a _lot_ of work.

He means -

Well.

Yuuri knew it was going to be, but he didn’t _really_ _know._

Sitting at the bakery, surrounded by cakes in flavours he didn’t even know were possible to be baked into cakes ( _chilli bacon, really?),_ Phichit armed to the teeth with wedding binders and selfies, Yuuri’s beginning to wonder if this was all a mistake.

Not -

Not the _proposal,_ of course.

Just the big wedding thing.

Maybe Victor and him should just elope. There’s still time, after all. The wedding’s three months away. According to Phichit, they’re behind schedule anyway, so they might as well ditch the fancy location and catering and decorators and go for something simpler.

Maybe Yu-topia?

Or Barcelona - Barcelona’s always good. Just thinking of the city makes him smile, the ghost of a gold medal looped around his neck, Victor cheering himself hoarse next to him.

Good times.

By his side, Phichit prods him with a finger, and Yuuri looks up, startled. The phone shutter clicks. Phichit lowers the device, swiping at it, applying various filters.

“No, Yuuri, that’s no good, you need to look happier! We’re tasting cakes for your wedding, smile more!” Phichit picks a plate from the dozen or so laid out in front of them and plonks it in front of him. “Here, try this one, it’s - ” he squints at the label stuck into the top, “ - vanilla coconut.”

“Ah, no, not this one,” Yuuri says, nudging the plate without tasting it. “Victor hates coconut. Something with, uh, chocolate, maybe? Less weird flavours?”

“Yuuri,” Phichit smiles, eyes doing that scary thing he does when Yuuri’s not _focusing up._ “Your wedding is being covered by _Vogue Russia._ You can’t get a simple _chocolate cake._ ” Lips pursed, expression considering, Phichit selects another plate. “But here - chocolate raspberry. That’s better.”

Sighing, Yuuri picks a plastic fork from the neatly laid-out row nestled in a cloth napkin _(damask, Yuuri, that’s damask)_ and spears a generous square of the cake, popping it into his mouth.

At Phichit’s eager look, Yuuri shrugs. “It’s not bad, I guess? A bit strong on the raspberry, but otherwise okay.”

The Parisian confectioner - because _of course_ they had to fly to Paris just for the wedding cake and pastries - notes his preference down on her clipboard, bustling into the kitchen to bring out several more samples. Yuuri gazes forlornly out of the windows overlooking Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie, wondering if Victor’s enjoying his suit fitting with Yuri and Christophe. He probably is, to be honest. Victor _loves_ shopping and fashion.

Yuuri sighs again.

Phichit makes him try a succession of samples, and they eventually settle on chocolate orange. After _that,_ there are cake designs to be chosen, tiers to be discussed, frosting options, and by the time Yuuri is free from Phichit’s draconian clutches it’s pushing three in the afternoon.

Out on the street, Yuuri inhales, glad for the fresh air. “I can’t believe you made us stay in there choosing a _cake_ for _four hours._ ”

Phichit gives him an evil side-eye, then pokes him into a pose in front of the patisserie windows for a selfie. “You should be _grateful_ you have me to help with the planning,” Phichit pouts at the camera and takes five photos in rapid succession, Yuuri holding his awkwardly grinning position next to him.

Yuuri huffs good-naturedly. “I’m just going to mention that _we_ wanted to hire a wedding planner, but you point-blank refused and threatened to never speak to me again if we didn’t let you plan it.”

Phichit sniffs. “Well, a wedding planner wouldn’t know you like I do. They’d screw it up, you know that.” With a glance at the thick binder in his arms, Phichit gasps. “Okay, no time to talk, it’s nearly three - we’re due back at Gare du Nord for the Eurostar at five, you have that suit fitting in London with Tom Ford tomorrow at noon.”

Snapping the binder shut, he hustles Yuuri along.

 

 

_____

 

 

That evening, in his suite at Claridge’s in London, Yuuri Skypes Victor. The call _boops_ as it connects, and with a few button clicks, Victor’s image fills the screen of his laptop.

“Yuuri!” Victor beams. “How did cake tasting go?”

“Taste-wise, fine, time-wise, awful,” Yuuri groans, leaning forward to drop his exasperated head into his arms. “Phichit is a slave-driver.”

From the other bedroom in the suite, Phichit yells, “I heard that, you ingrate!”

Shaking his head, Yuuri smiles. “What about you? How did the fittings go?”

Victor visibly perks up. “Oh, it was _great,_ you should’ve been here to see Yuri’s face. He couldn’t decide how to split his time between insulting me, you, me _and_ you, and admiring himself in the mirror and not-so-secretly wondering whether Otabek will think he looks attractive.”

Yuuri snorts, amused. “It’s adorable that he thinks we don’t know they have a _thing_.” He pauses, hand coming up to his chin. “He _is_  sixteen, though, I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Pssssh,” Victor waves a dismissive hand. “I had my first kiss at thirteen, Yuri can handle himself. I’m not worried.”

From elsewhere in the suite, Phichit offers bellowed commentary once again. “ _Jeez_ , you guys are _such_ parents, oh my god. I know Emil said you were at the Rostelecom, but it’s even worse _in person_.” Exaggerated retching noises follow.

“Shut up!” Yuuri yells back, Victor chuckling into a palm. “Stop eavesdropping!”

“Then don’t be so gross!” comes the response, and Yuuri rolls his eyes. He turns back to Victor, grinning. “Anyway, how is Christophe doing?”

“Eh,” Victor replies, see-sawing a hand. “He keeps trying to get the tailor to _make my suit tighter, my ass looks great, don’t hide it with fabric._ I’m at the point where I’m beginning to question my decision to have him as my best man.”

Yuuri laughs. “He _would,_ wouldn’t he.” He pillows his chin on a palm, elbow resting on the desk. “I’m glad you’re having fun with the fittings.” Blushing, still unused at being able to say what he feels, he adds, “I miss you.”

“Ah, Yuuri, I miss you too,” Victor sighs, eyes affectionate, smile warm. “Not long now, though. You have, what - the fittings at Tom Ford tomorrow, then back to St. Petersburg the day after?”

He nods, offering a smile in return. “Yeah, another two and a half days.” Sighing and pouting unabashedly, he says, “I still don’t get why all of you couldn’t just do your fittings here.”

Victor gasps, mock offended. “And miss the chance to fly to Milan for a bespoke Zegna, straight from the source? Never, Yuuri, _never._ ”

Phichit chooses then to chime in again from across the suite, “Tom Ford, peasant! He’s going to make Yuuri’s ass look _so_ good!”

Victor nods along, not entirely joking. Yuuri flushes.

“Aaaanyway,” Yuuri picks up, blatant in his attempt to steer the conversation away from his ass, “You’re an hour ahead in Milan. It must be, what, after one in the morning for you? You should go to bed, you have a long and early flight tomorrow.”

“I will,” Victor smiles, “And you should too. I’d ask you to send photos from the fitting, but I expect Phichit will upload a lot of it to Instagram anyway.”

“I’m sure he will,” Yuuri huffs, used to his friend’s antics. “I’ll see you Friday afternoon. I love you, _Vitya._ ”

Victor chokes, startled, and Yuuri is secretly pleased. He’d had to text Mila to find out the diminutive of the name, and she’d promised him Victor’d love it. “Right - uh - Friday. I love you too.”

The final image he sees before the Skype call shuts off is of Victor, blushing furiously.

Yuuri goes to bed in high spirits, grinning into his pillow.

 

 

_____

 

 

The fitting is uncomfortable, long, awkward, and Yuuri spends most of it clueless, but he escapes from the tailor relatively unscathed. Phichit takes over forty selfies of his own fitting session, hashtagging the photos with things like #comingsoon and #YuuriNikiforov and #weddingoftheyear _(no more than five hashtags in a post, Yuuri, I have a system)_.

Then it’s back to Claridge’s for the night and off to Heathrow the next morning for their flight to St. Petersburg, Phichit explaining, once again, the importance of having the planning party.

“It’s so everyone on the wedding planning team and both wedding parties can get to know one another, you know,” he says, nibbling on a jelly baby. “I read it in Cosmo. It’s very important.”

“I guess,” Yuuri replies, wholly unconvinced. “Victor and I don’t exactly have separate wedding parties, though, and everyone _already_ knows each other? I mean, _you_ know Yuri, Victor, Otabek, Christophe, Jean-Jacques, Leo, Guang Hong, Mila, Georgi, Emil, Michele, Sara, Seung-gil…”

Phichit glares at him, and Yuuri stops talking, raising his hands in defeat.

“You know,” Phichit picks up, “Yuri’s going to be furious when he learns you invited Jean-Jacques.”

Wincing, Yuuri nods. “I know, we haven’t told him. I think Victor’s trying to distract him with Otabek’s attendance before sneaking the information in.”

“Ah,” Phichit grins, “Young love. It’s adorable. I remember having crushes at that age.”

Yuuri shakes his head, smiling in response. “I remember Carlos from college,” he says, elbowing Phichit and wagging his eyebrows.

“Pfft, that was ages ago, Yuuri,” Phichit waves away. “Not all of us can stumble into a love story like you.”

With a sudden thought and wicked smile, Phichit pulls out his phone, thumbing at it. After several seconds, a familiar and dreaded video begins to play.

“Oh my _god,”_ Yuuri hisses, the recognition instant. He lunges for the device. “Don’t play that, we’re in _public_ , there are _children_ here.”

Dancing away, phone held above his head, video still playing, Phichit says, “Oh no, this is too good, the world deserves to see this.”

On the screen, the tiny figure of Yuuri strips off around a pole, twisting and bending around a mostly-naked Christophe.

Giving up, Yuuri sinks onto the hard plastic airport chair, burying a mortified face in his hands.

“Ooooh,” Phichit skips over, holding the phone next to him so the sound of the video plays loud in his ear. “No, wait, this one’s even better.”

Peeking through his fingers, Yuuri sees Phichit swipe through his photos, going through a succession of Yuuri in varying states of undress and inebriation, dancing with and twined around Victor like a demented snake.

Unable to hold back his laughter, Phichit breaks down, guffawing until tears pool at the corner of his eyes. Yuuri sulks.

“ _Ohhhhh_ my god, hoo, oh my god,” Phichit says in bursts, calming himself down with bursts of laughter interspersed throughout his attempt.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri, not all of us can have a perfect love story like yours. Victor, completely dazzled by your seductive drunken wiles - ” Phichit trails off into hiccuping laughter again, “ - while you battle in a dance-off for his maiden coaching hand.” With a shaky hand, he swipes at the tears in his eyes. “God, the two of you.”

Their gate is announced over the PA system, and Yuuri sulks and stomps off without Phichit, face beet red with embarrassment. A giggling Phichit follows after, apologising in between more bouts of laughter.

It’s a long flight to St. Petersburg.

 

 

_____

 

 

Yuuri wishes he could say Victor and him have a grand, romantic reunion upon their mutual return to Russia, but the fact of the matter is that they’re both too exhausted to do anything other than neck on the sofa like fumbling teens before migrating to the bedroom to collapse into fatigued sleep, Makkachin curled up on their legs.

Phichit, Yuri, and Christophe are ensconced at the Belmond Grand, with the rest of their guests due to arrive over the weekend in time for the party on Sunday.

Like Yuuri said -

Weddings? A _lot_ of work, especially when you’re marrying the star and pride of Russia. (Actual words from a radio report, although Yuuri unabashedly agrees, to Yuri’s disgust.)

Saturday morning sees them both startled awake by the ringing of Yuuri’s mobile, Phichit making sure they’re up in time for the first of their numerous interviews with Vogue Russia for the wedding coverage.

“You’re not my agent, you know,” Yuuri groans into the phone, eyes still half-shut and brain still mostly asleep. “I don’t have one of those.”

“Good,” Phichit snarks back, “Because I wouldn’t want to be, you’d be a horrible client. I’m just a fantastic friend who knows you sleep in when you have bad jet lag, so you owe me. Now get up, the reporter will be at your flat at eleven.”

Hanging up, Yuuri flops back onto their bed, Victor’s arm coming up to wrap around his waist and pull him against his chest. Flinging a drowsy hand back, he pats Victor’s thigh. “No, no, we have to get up, the Vogue person will be here in an hour.”

Victor moans piteously into his pillow, and with a put-upon sigh, Yuuri heaves himself from the warmth of their bed to walk over the the windows, drawing up the blinds.

The morning light is blindingly staggering, and Yuuri has to shield his eyes for several seconds as they adjust.

From the bed, Victor slides out, making disgruntled noises.

Washing up is slow and lethargic, Yuuri missing his toothbrush twice and plopping beads of toothpaste on their bathroom sink. Victor showers, grumbling at the chill, and Yuuri gets a pot of coffee going before Victor emerges and he hops into the shower himself.

By ten-forty, they’re both showered and marginally more awake, having each ingested at _least_ one cup of black coffee. The bed is made with perfect hospital corners - courtesy of Yuuri’s experience running the bathhouse - and the lounge neatened, newspapers and magazine tucked into their stand, scattered shoes rounded up and left of the right rack.

Still bleary-eyed, Yuuri sinks down onto their sofa, Makkachin hopping up to curl around him. He buries a dozy face into his fur, barely aware when Victor settles down next to him to flip the TV on for some early morning Russian cartoons.

At eleven exactly, their bell chimes, and Victor shuts the TV off before he rises to buzz the reporter up and through the concierge.

“Alright, _kotyenok,_ game face on,” he teases, pinching gently at Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri shakes himself awake and stands from the sofa, brushing stray strands of fur from his face.

The reporter is a woman in her mid-thirties, sharply dressed in a Givenchy pantsuit - and the fact he knows that is a sure sign that Victor’s rubbing off on him. They offer her tea and coffee, and she accepts a cup of tea - _earl grey, thank you_ \- before the three of them settle in the lounge, Victor and Yuuri on the sofa, her on the lone armchair to their right.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to this,” she begins, smile perfectly polished, lipstick flawlessly lined. “I’m Katerina Petrova, with the Moscow office.”

“Ah,” Victor grins. “Do you happen to know Evgenia, then? She interviewed me last year.”

Katerina is powerless against the full force of his smile and charm. “Oh, yes, you mean Evgenia Romanova? She’s a colleague and a good friend, she spoke highly of you.”

Ducking his head in an almost boyish grin, Victor demurs. “She was so lovely, it was no trouble at all.”

They share a laugh, and Katerina looks over at Yuuri, nestled comfortably at Victor’s side, Victor’s left arm running down the back of the sofa and across his shoulders. “Well, Katsuki-san, you are certainly a lucky, _lucky_ man.”

Yuuri beams, glancing down at the ring on his finger. To his right, the glint of Victor’s matching ring catches at the corner of his eye. “Just Yuuri’s fine, please,” he says. “And I don’t know - I mean, _Victor’s_ certainly lucky too.”

Next to him, Victor shifts in surprise at his boldness, expression delighted.

Yuuri laughs, then continues. “No, no, I know what you mean, and I am definitely _incredibly_ lucky to have Victor with me. After what happened at Sochi in 2015, Victor was a - a miracle, you know? He’s been my rock. I couldn’t have won at Barcelona without him.”

“Yes, the two of you first met at Sochi, didn’t you?”

Yuuri nods. “Of course, I knew about Victor before - I wouldn’t be any good as a figure skater if I claimed to be into the sport and _not_  known who he was - but I hadn’t met him in person before then, no.”

Katerina leans in, deliberately conspiratorial. “We hear there are rumours that you got a little _wild_ at that banquet after, Yuuri. Did you win Victor’s heart then?”

It’s Victor who laughs here, a deep, full-bodied chuckle. “Could I - ” he glances over at Yuuri for permission to take the question. Yuuri pouts and flushes with the knowledge of what Victor’s going to say, but nods anyway.

Victor turns back to Katerina. “Actually, Yuuri doesn’t remember _any_ of that. He’ll tell you he only won me over when I became his coach, but the truth is, he completely stole my heart over at the banquet, forgot that he ever did, and then _I_ had to spend nearly eight months winning him _back_.”

Katerina’s expression is a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “Oh, my, that’s even more romantic when you put it like that!” Her pen taps lightly on the page of her notebook. “It also clears things up a great deal, I remember how perplexed we all were when you uprooted yourself to move to Japan on what seemed like a whim.”

Yuuri jumps in then, patting a hand on Victor’s knee. When he makes to remove it, Victor captures it and laces it with his, their twin gold bands sitting comfortably near one another. “Well, if you were confused, you can imagine how baffled _I_ was when he showed up at Yu-topia.” He mock glares at Victor, and they share a secret smile.

“A lot of what Victor did initially didn’t make sense to me,” Yuuri continues, Victor’s thumb stroking over his knuckles in gentle strokes. “It wasn’t until the night before the Barcelona GPF that I was, uh, _reminded_ of the banquet after Sochi.”

Victor pulls his left hand from the back of the sofa to settle across Yuuri’s shoulders, nodding. “In retrospect, especially with Yuuri not remembering,” Victor picks up, “Everything - me moving to Hasetsu with Makkachin and all my belongings, leaving figure skating for the year to coach - had the potential to go disastrously wrong. We’re both so lucky it didn’t.”

Katerina looks ready to melt into a puddle of goo at the sheer fluffiness of their conversation.

“And,” Victor leans in, eyes glinting mischievously, “I got to see Yuuri _dance_ , so really, between the two of us, I’m the lucky one in this relationship.”

Yuuri blushes down to his roots.

The interview is over by twelve-thirty, and famished after seeing Katerina out the door, Yuuri prods at Victor until he concedes to ordering in some Thai. _(“It’s off-season, but we’re still skaters, Yuuri, do you know how many carbs there are in a Pad Thai?”)_

At two, Yuuri’s phone beeps with an onslaught of messages, Minako and Mari texting to let him know they’ve arrived at Pulkovo Airport and are en route to the Belmond Grand in the car Victor’d arranged to pick them both up.

“Minako and Mari are here,” Yuuri announces, holding his phone aloft, texts onscreen as proof.

“Oh, good,” Victor says, chewing through a mouthful of rice and green curry. “Did they find the chauffeur alright?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri nods, tongue between his teeth as he pecks out a reply on the tiny keyboard. “You were right, though, their flight was delayed by an hour.”

Victor waves his fork in the air, validated. “Told you, Aeroflot is only good for one thing: making you wait.” Glancing at the clock in the kitchen, he says, “Are we done for the day, then? Or does our supreme wedding dictator Phichit have plans for us?”

Setting his phone aside, Yuuri shakes his head. “No, I think that’s it for now. We just have the party tomorrow that begins at 5pm, and we have to be at the Belmond Grand by three.”

“Well,” Victor says, voice dipping suggestively, eyes darkening as he extends a hand to Yuuri. “We have hours, then.”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose. “You’re going to taste like green curry,” he complains.

He takes Victor’s hand anyway.

 

 

_____

 

 

 

In the private dining room of the Belmond Grand, their party of seventeen is in full swing.

Yuri skulks by the buffet table, shooting occasional glares JJ’s obnoxious way, Otabek stoically bemused at his elbow. Leo and Guang Hong are glued to each other as usual, currently being roped by Phichit into yet another selfie. Georgi’s chatting - a little _too_ interestedly, Yuuri thinks, his eyes narrowing - with Minako, the latter giggling into a glass of champagne.

Mila, Sara, and Mari are currently whispering by the fern in the corner, all three of them looking far too devious and plotting for party-goers. Yuuri should check on them.

Christophe, Victor, and JJ are meanwhile engaged in some sort of - sexy-off? - Yuuri doesn’t know, don’t ask him. It involves a lot of nudity, gleaming muscles, and loud exclamations.

To his left, Michele’s laughing at something Emil’s just said, and there’s a look of gradual dawning realisation on Mickey’s face throughout the entire conversation - _about time,_ Yuuri thinks. It's getting almost embarrassing to watch.

Glass of punch - not _alcohol, thank you very much -_ in hand, Yuuri smiles to himself.

It’s a good party.

He wishes Yuuko could be here too, but he knows that she has the triplets and the Ice Castle to run, so he gets it. He’ll see her in Hasetsu in a couple of weeks, anyway.

Done with _whatever it is_ they were doing, Victor saunters up to drape himself over Yuuri’s back, shirt and suit jacket vanished to parts unknown. “Yuuuuu- _ri_ ,” he sing-songs, waving an extra glass of champagne under his nose. “I got this for you.”

Yuuri shakes his head furiously. “No - _no,_ I am not going to drink that. You know what happens when I do.” He lowers his voice, glancing nervously around them. “My _inner Kyūshū beast.”_

“But it’s our engagement party!” Victor whines, nudging the glass at him insistently. “I want to see my _sexy katsudon_.”

“Technically,” Yuuri adds, “This is only the pre-wedding planning party, or whatever Phichit’s named it. We have an engagement-slash-bachelors thing in a couple of months.”

“Oh my _god,”_ Victor moans, “Please just drink, we’re celebrating.”

Flushing, Yuuri sighs, then caves. “ _Fine._ Just one.”

It ends up being twelve.

Yuuri doesn’t remember any of it.

(There are hundreds of photos on Victor’s phone, seven videos on Phichit’s, and so, _so_ many snapchats from Mari. He’s told Christophe was scandalised - _Christophe_ \- and Yuri was egged into another dance-off _(“For young love!”_ Yuuri’d apparently proclaimed), and Victor had to pay the hotel vast sums in reparations. _(“Worth every ruble,”_ Victor’d declared.) Phichit had sworn off being a party planner every again, and Emil and Mickey had been caught in several compromising positions.)

All in all -

A good party.

 

 

_____

 

 

In the month following their pre-wedding party, they head to Hasetsu to visit Yuuri’s parents, bunking down at Yu-topia once again.

“This is nostalgic,” Victor announces, after being shown into the - now vacant - banqueting room.

Smiling softly, Yuuri nudges him. “Come on, my room’s this way. Let’s drop our things off, then we can check out the Ice Castle and say hello to Yuuko and Nishigori.”

They’re stopped by several people on their way over to the rink, two fans who want photos, and three elderly ladies who just want to pinch his cheeks and wish him well. Victor finds it all adorable, and makes him pose with the elderly trio for an Instagram photo.

At the Ice Castle, Yuuko is ecstatic to see them, and summons Nishigori from the back to say hi.

“The triplets are at school at the moment,” she apologises, “But you’ll get to see them over at dinner tonight!”

“That’s right,” Yuuri nods, “They’re, what, seven now?”

“Just!” Yuuko confirms, beaming. “They turned seven in March.” They’re ushered into the rink, past six in the evening and shut for the day. “I thought you might like to skate,” she says, looking at the both of them for confirmation. Victor shrugs in agreement, and Yuuko presents them with two sets of skates. “I’m sorry, I know these aren’t up to your usual standards, but I sharpened the blades myself, so these shouldn’t be too bad.”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri reassures. “We’re not picky.”

Well. Victor _is,_ especially when it comes to his blades, but they’re not going to say that when Yuuko’s excited and showing them a huge kindness.

“I’ll leave you both to it, then,” she says, sending them a smile on her way out. “Consider this our wedding gift!”

Alone in the rink, Yuuri glances at Victor, uncertain. “Any plans?”

Expression thoughtful, Victor tugs his phone from his pocket, humming. “You know, I’ve never actually seen you perform _Stay Close to Me_ in person, Yuuri.”

Huffing a laugh, Yuuri steps onto the ice, pulling Victor along with him. “Wait, really? You want me to do that now?” He shakes his head. “I’m not even sure I can remember the routine.”

Victor leans in to bump their noses, then closes the gap between them to press their lips together for a long, slow kiss. Drawing back, he smirks. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” He nudges Yuuri away. “Go on.”

Faking exasperation, Victor’s taste still on his tongue, Yuuri skates towards the centre. At the edge of the ice, Victor swipes at his phone for the music.

When the faint notes begin to play, Yuuri glides into the performance, recalling the way Victor had _moved_ at the Championships. He trails Victor in his mind’s eye, jumping where he jumped, flowing where he flowed. There are the quads, the combination jumps, the spins.

It’s -

It’s different, this time round, doing this here at the Ice Castle. Aware of Victor’s eyes trained on him, Yuuri can’t help the surge of love that threatens to overwhelm him.

It’s _better._

The music crescendoes, and Yuuri whirls and chases, his blades a blur, the _shhhtk_ and _thunk_ of him hitting the ice a familiar counterpoint to his movement. When the music slows, then stops, Yuuri’s left panting, sweating, vividly triumphant.

There’s the sound of blades, and then Victor’s throwing himself at him in a full hug, the two of them falling to the ice.

“ _God, Yuuri,”_ Victor breathes, and pulls him in for a kiss, deep and filthy, and what _is_ that pressing against his - oh.

Yeah, Yuuri sound have seen this coming a mile off.

Breaking the kiss, chest still heaving, Yuuri says, tone pointed, “I’m not having sex with you on the _ice.”_

Leaning in for a kiss again, Victor assaults his mouth with a barrage of sensations, licking hot and wet. He pulls away, expression sly. “What about the locker room?”

Yuuri can’t believe he’s even -

“Yeah, okay, locker room’s fine.”

 

 

_____

 

 

The wedding’s a week away now, and most of their respective (combined? Most of their friends are all figure skaters, so the overlap is significant, if not total) wedding parties have arrived in St. Petersburg.

Phichit’s been here since five days ago now, whipping the caterers and decorators and everyone involved into a frenzy. It’s terrifying. Victor and Yuuri haven’t been spared the slightest.

They’re constantly trailed by the press whenever they step out, so Yuuri’s glad that the wedding itself will be on the grounds of Victor’s childhood home, even if he’s yet to see it himself.

“Oh, Yuuri, it’s amazing, you’ll love it,” Phichit had assured him, back from the two-hour drive to the venue. “Don’t worry, I have it all under control.”

“Are you sure it can fit everyone comfortably?” Yuuri’d asked, uncertain. “We have a lot of guests.”

Phichit had shot him an incredulous look. “It’s a _manor,_ Yuuri, I’m pretty sure we could invite all of St. Petersburg and still have room to spare.”

Yuuri had left that conversation feeling distinctly bewildered, but trusting Phichit - and Victor - to know and sort the location out.

He has other things on his mind now, anyway. The engagement-slash-bachelor thing (he still has no idea what Phichit is calling it) is tonight at one of the private dining rooms at Ginza, and Yuri and Otabek have apparently been misplaced.

“Wait, what do you mean _misplaced?”_ Victor asks, baffled.

Yuuri wrings his hands, agitated. “As in, Emil says he saw them take off from the Belmond Grand at noon, and they haven’t been back since and Yuri isn’t answering my calls.”

Victor chuckles, clearly unworried. “Well, maybe if I called him - ”

“Won't work either, I tried calling him using your phone.”

Put out, Victor’s mouth forms a moue. “Huh.” After a minute, Victor tilts his head, gesturing expansively with his hand. “I’m sure it’s fine, Otabek - _seems_ \- reliable. I’m sure they’ll be back for the party.”

Yuuri tosses his hands up. “Fine, on your head be it, you deal with it now.” Stressed, he heads off to soak in the tub, petulant.

As it turns out, Otabek delivers the both of them back - on his _motorcycle -_ to the Belmond Grand by five that evening, and Yuuri is annoyed at his lack of vindication. But Yuri’s _smiling,_ so he can’t bring himself to be too annoyed at all.

At the centre of the table, the raucous, cheerful sound of their party around them, Victor’s arm is slung around his shoulder, hand brushing Yuuri’s forearm in soothing strokes.

Phichit demands photos with them, grumbling about the poor lighting, and - when he thinks Yuuri isn’t looking - unsubtly threatens Victor.

It’s great, and Yuuri’s secretly pleased until Yuri stomps up to him when Victor’s attention is diverted and _Yuuri_ gets threatened with promises of an excruciating, painful death by sharpened skating blades if he even _thinks_ about hurting Victor.

(“So help me god, if you fuck this up - and you will, because you’re an idiot - I will murder you slowly with my skates and _I will enjoy every second of it,_ do you understand me.”)

Yuuri is so proud.

He pats Yuri on the hand, the youth recoiling like a cat touching water. “Be good to Otabek, he seems nice,” Yuuri says. Yuri hisses before marching off.

Christophe laments the loss of skating’s most eligible bachelor, Victor preening until Christophe shoots him a blank look, clarifying, “No, I meant Yuuri.”

Phichit captures Victor’s reaction on video for posterity. It’s hilarious.

JJ’s here with his fiancée, the two of them absorbed in their own world, breaking away once to wish Victor and Yuuri their best, even if “The party isn’t _quite_ up to JJ-style, you know?” They mostly ignore them both.

Leo, Guang Hong, and Seung-gil are poking at the chocolate fondue fountain, stacking marshmallows up and sticking them with chocolate as high as they can go.

Emil and Mickey are careful and shy around each other, sitting down at the end of the table with Sara and Georgi. Mila’s watching them from two seats over, clearly invested.

It’s not until they bump hands and both blush that she sighs, leaning over to say, “ _Everyone_ knows, you two, and we all think it’s cute.” Her comment draws nods from around the table, and Mickey looks like he’s seriously contemplating crawling under the table and digging his way back to Italy. Sara just laughs hysterically at his reaction.

Towards the end of the party, Minako, Sara, Mari, and Mila corner him, presenting him with a carefully wrapped boxed.

Puzzled, Yuuri shakes the box gently. “Oh - wow, thanks, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, no, we had to,” Minako says, voice wicked. “Girl’s got to dream.”

“Umm,” Yuuri responds, suddenly terrified at the box’s contents.

“Open it,” Mari eggs on, and Mila glares until he does.

It’s -

It’s -

It’s a ball gag. And cock ring.

From his _sister._ And _Minako_. And _Sara_ and _Mila_.

Yuuri slaps the lid back on the box, face fire-engine red.

He struggles to form words.

Finally, he squeaks, “I hate you all.”

Then he runs off to bury the gift, Sara yelling after him, “You didn’t say you _wouldn’t_ use it, though!”

By eleven, the party’s winding down, their cars coming round to drop everyone back at the hotel and Yuuri and Victor back at their flat.

“Final suit fittings tomorrow, don’t forget,” Phichit reminds them before climbing into the car.

Christophe peppers Yuuri’s hand with drunken kisses until Victor, disgruntled, pulls him off and shoves him into another car.

By the time they _finally_ make it home, it’s just after midnight. Victor catches him attempting to stash the box with _the gift_ in the storage cupboard.

“Yuuri,” he asks, curious. “What is that?”

“Nothing!” he yelps, shoving the box as far in as he can and slamming the cupboard door shut. “Nothing at all, absolutely _nothing_ to see here.”

A short, violent tickle war later, with Victor emerging the winner (because _of course_ Victor’s not only a legendary skater, he also has to be entirely unfeeling and not ticklish in the slightest), he’s peering into the box and laughing.

“Is that it?” Victor asks, brandishing the gag and ring.

Yuuri can’t even look him in the eye.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor says, voice dipping, coming in to crowd close. “You could just have said you wanted to try it out.”

“I didn’t _say_ that,” Yuuri insists, his protests feeble even to his own ears.

And - well.

He doesn’t actually _get_ to say much else that night.

(Moans and groans and whimpers and wordless begging don’t count.)

 

 

_____

 

 

To call Nikiforov Manor _massive_ would be a gross understatement. The place is frankly gargantuan in scope, mind-bogglingly palatial in luxury.

It’s intimidating as hell, and Yuuri’s not the least bit ashamed to admit that.

Mari even stops to whistle, short and low, when she’s directed into the entrance foyer with their parents. She eyes him, grinning cheekily. “You’ve done well for yourself, _otōto_.”

Yuuri glares and tries to trip her on the sweeping marble staircase leading up to the guest wing.

(Because - yes. There is a _guest wing.)_

The morning of the wedding is a frantic scramble of Phichit darting in and out of Yuuri’s field of vision, herding guests and directing the various hires to the right locations at the right times.

Vogue Russia steals Victor and Yuuri for a quick, hour-long photoshoot, and World War III nearly breaks out when JJ accidentally steps on Yuri’s leather-loafered foot.

The massive tent for the ceremony is set up on the lawn, the decorators fretting over it, and the caterers cart tables in and out of the dining room, large enough to comfortably sit a hundred guests.

By eleven, an hour before the ceremony is set to begin, Yuuri’s deposited back in his suite, Victor shut away in a separate one.

“It’s tradition, you can’t see the bride before the wedding,” Phichit insists.

“But we’re _both_ grooms, and I saw Victor _a minute ago!”_

Phichit turns his nose up, ignoring him. Yuuri’s protests fall on deaf ears, and he eventually gives up to worry at his cufflinks, anticipation building the closer the clock on the mantle draws to twelve.

The makeup artist bustles in to fix his face, Yuuri enduring her ministrations, and his dad joins him at 11.45am.

“It’s going to be alright,” his dad assures, words a balm to the ball of anxiety in Yuuri’s throat. “You’ve come so far. I’m so proud of you.” There are tears in his eyes, and Yuuri can feel the pressure building behind his as well. He blinks rapidly, struggling not to cry.

“Thanks, _otou-san,_ ” he says, voice shaky. He wraps his dad up in a hug, and _god,_ did his dad always feel this frail? Was his hair always this grey? Were there always this many lines on his face?

How did Yuuri not notice?

His dad pulls back to clasp him by the forearms, brushing imaginary specks of lint from his suit. “I’m so happy _for_ you, Yuuri-kun. Victor’s a wonderful man.” He smiles. “And he’s so lucky to have _you.”_

Behind them, Phichit knocks on the suite’s double doors, drawing them open. He beams, announcing, “They’re waiting for you.”

Sliding his hand into the crook of his dad’s elbow, Yuuri goes.

 

 

_____

 

 

The day is perfect, the noon sun illuminating the ceremony in a gentle, golden glow. Victor’s hair gleams in the amber light, Yuuri’s North Star straight down the aisle.

Around him are his family and friends, people who’ve believed in him and loved him and never stopped being _by his side._

By the officiant, Victor is beautiful. Yuuri’s breath is taken away, his mind going blank with disbelief.

 _This is the man you’re going to marry,_ he thinks. _This is a legend that you’ve chased your whole life, and now you are going to marry the man, and this is so many better, and how did I get so lucky?_

Christophe winks at Yuuri as they approach, Yuri off to his side, deigning to nod and give him - the _shadow_ of - a smile. On Yuuri’s side there’s Phichit, sobbing openly into a tissue, and Yuuri pauses to hug him tight, intensely, _fiercely_ grateful for his friends.

Yuuri reaches Victor.

Yuuri takes his hand, and as he did in his mind in _Stay Close to Me_ a year and a half ago, continents and lifetimes away, he follows Victor’s lead.

Except -

That’s not quite right, is it?

They share quiet, secret smiles.

The sun glints off their twin gold bands, the band strikes up their first dance, and together, they follow _each other_ into the rest of their lives.

 

 

_____

 

 

_Omake- - -  Epilogue_

 

When the coverage of their wedding breaks in Vogue Russia, Victor has all the pages of the article framed and hung around their flat.

“It’s not narcissism,” he claims, “Although I admit I look amazing in these photos.” Twirling back to Yuuri, scooping an exuberant Makkachin into his arms, he says, “It was the best day of my life, I don’t see why I can’t show it off.”

On the sofa, Yuuri’s heart melts into a puddle. Smiling, he teases, “Not Barcelona?”

“No,” Victor says, settling down onto the sofa next to him, cuddling up to feather kisses on his neck and the tender underside of his jaw. “Barcelona was when I knew you were mine.” He gestures at the flat, expansive. “This article? Now _everyone_ knows it too.”

Victor leans up, grin wicked. “Now, _no one_ watching you perform can make the mistake that you’re thinking of anyone but _me.”_

Yuuri hums, noncommittal, and Victor spends the rest of the day _making sure_ that Yuuri’s full of nothing but him.

(Yes, it’s innuendo.)

(Yes, they have filthy, glorious, _fantastic_ sex.)

(Yes, Yuuri’s blushing.)

(Yes, they are so very entirely, stupidly, whole-heartedly in _love.)_

 

 

 

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Quick translations:  
>  _kotyenok_ : kitten (Russian; endearment)  
>  _otōto_ : little brother (Japanese)  
>  _otou-san_ : dad (Japanese)
> 
> As a final request, I'm going to ask that **constructive criticism please be withheld**. For those of you thinking 'wow astoryaboutwar just wants us to say nice things', that's _not_ what concrit is - it's still entirely your prerogative if you want to comment just to tell me you hate something. Concrit is pretty specific, and I've had horrible, awful experiences with it in the past, and I'd rather just not deal with it again in my _unpaid_ writing.
> 
> Don't get me wrong, though, I love comments, and comments are ALWAYS welcome.
> 
> I'm also on Tumblr [here](http://astoryaboutwar.tumblr.com/), come join me and share in shenanigans!


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